The dark place
by odd.one.out2
Summary: a scared and lonely ten year old boy, who just wants it all to end... because he cant sleep... the dark place is too scary... *end flashback* "and people wonder why I'm unfriendly..."


DISCLAIMER: If I owned this... there would be alot of changes... mwuhahahaha....  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
My name is Severus. People say I'm a cold hearted bastard who doesnt know the meaning of Sleep. They wonder why it is always me who is wandering the corridors of the school at night. They wonder why I am so decent to the Half-giant, yet so cold and unkind to everyone else. You really want to know why?  
  
then here.  
here is the story of me when I was a ten year old boy, unaware of my magical abilities...  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
The dark place.  
  
I hate it there.  
  
But I have to go back.  
  
Every god-damn time I close my eyes. Ever time I blink. Every time I sleep.  
  
There are things there. Creatures. Horrible things with long, sharp claws, and shining white fangs, dripping with toxic saliva.  
  
People walk around not knowing it's there. Because their sub-conscious has "locked" the door to the dark place.  
  
Do you know what a nightmare is? It's when your sub-conscious "lock" gets tired. And you go to the dark place. That's where everything you are most afraid of comes to life, unleashing new fears along the way.  
  
Some people's "locks" break for good. Like mine. And every time their eyes shut they go to the dark place. No way out. No way to stay unharmed. You can't run from anything. And when you wake up, you vow you'll never go there again.  
  
But you can't stop it. You have to sleep sometime.  
  
Close your eyes.  
  
Go ahead, do it now.  
  
What do you see?  
  
Nothing?  
  
Blackness?  
  
Not me. I see shining silver knives; the tips glinting red with blood in the moonlight. I see blood-hungry monsters looking for desert.  
  
Ever since I can remember, it's been this way. I wake up screaming, crying, or thrashing at the things that are hurting me. And bleeding.  
  
Bleeding like you've never seen before.  
  
My white sheets always turning red; my mother stopped trying to clean them when I was four.  
  
I was sent to countless counselors. They always came up with theories. Suppressed trauma was a big one, but they tossed that away because I've been like this since I was born.  
  
My mother went insane; she ran into the street screaming and got hit by a truck. When she recovered she was sent to an insane asylum.  
  
My father left me in an alley when I was eight. Cold, scared, hungry and alone.  
  
I don't want to close my eyes anymore. But I can't help it. I have to. I've tried to kill myself countless times, but I never succeed. The dark place wants me alive. It needs someone to torture. Why won't they kill me?  
  
I want to die. I need to die.  
  
Kill me.  
  
Please.  
  
Please!  
  
Someone finds me. A very large man. He looks at me. Huddled in the corner of the ally, crying. And bleeding. He picks me up, and carries me into a house.  
  
What is this feeling? I feel different. Something has changed. Temperature. Warmth. I feel warm. I haven't felt that in a long time.  
  
What is time, anyway?  
  
A way to keep track of what happens?  
  
It doesn't matter.  
  
Nothing does.  
  
The big man sets me down on a couch. He kneels down, and looks into my eyes. My withered, tired eyes.  
  
I struggle to keep them open. But I have very little strength.  
  
He leaves for a moment, and come back with bandages and a bowl of something. She sets the bowl down on a small table.  
  
He speaks.  
  
Words.  
  
I haven't talked in so long. He tells me her name is Hagrid.  
  
He says he is going to fix me up. He carries me to a bathroom and takes off my tattered clothing.  
  
He fills the bathtub with warm water and lowers me in. He holds my head up, and washes my wounds. The water turns a translucent red. He looks into my eyes again, brushing my shaggy black hair out of the way.  
  
He opens her mouth, as if to speak, but hesitates, then closes it.  
  
After he finishes cleaning and dresses my wounds, he feeds me.  
  
Food.  
  
Nutrition. I haven't eaten since my father left me.  
  
He looks at me, and then talks to me. "What happened to you?" he asks. I struggle to speak, but only small noises come out. He looks into my eyes again, and tells me it will all be ok.  
  
But it won't. It will never be ok… 


End file.
